


Smash Myself to Pieces

by pinkoptics



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Erik Has Feelings, Erik has Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:19:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkoptics/pseuds/pinkoptics
Summary: Erik had never counted on Charles Xavier.Shaw had taken away and Charles had given back. Erik had never stopped to consider what might happen if someone were to give him back what had been taken. It was an an impossibility. At least, it had been, until that afternoon in Westchester.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is my way of playing with and exploring the question, "What might have happened if Erik had had more time to train in Westchester, to work with Charles and develop his power further?"
> 
> It's more or less canon up to the rage and serenity scene, I may have fudged with the training timeline a little, and then it diverges from there.

Between rage and serenity.

Those words had been circling around Erik's mind in an endless loop since the moment he had come down from the endorphin fuelled high of moving the satellite dish. He barely remembered Charles taking leave of him. His body and mind had been overrun by the momentous event that had occurred. His limbs had shuddered from the effort he'd expended and from the rush of adrenaline that had poured through his system. His muscles had turned liquid, useless things that were barely able to hold him up. He was not sure how long he had leaned against the ballastrude, staring at his accomplishment. His mind had not made it through much better. Astonished did not come close to covering how he felt. In fact, Erik was having difficulty coming up with a single word in any of the many languages he was versed in that adequately described his complete and utter shock over what he had done. Or, more to the point, what had gotten him there.

Charles. Serenity. The long lost memory of his mother.

When he had said that he had lost the memory he was not exaggerating. When he thought of his mother it was almost always of his last moments with her. Her soft voice telling him that it would be all right, when it most assuredly would not. The crack of the gunshot, deafening in the small room. And, finally, her body crumpling, signalling the end of everything Erik had had that was good. In his first weeks with Schmidt, Shaw, he had remembered more, of course. His grief had made him long desperately for her, made him dwell on everything he had lost. He had clung to every memory of her, clutching at them to keep from drowning in his painful new reality. But drown he did. In the pain, the terror, the rage, and the torture until all that was left was that one memory. The one which would become the focal point of his relentless quest for revenge against the man that had created it. The man who had created him. 

Shaw had ripped him apart, his mind and his body, and pieced him back together both figuratively and literally. Frankenstein's monster indeed. Shaw's first tool of choice had been Erik's rage. He had poked and prodded at his mother's death, keeping the emotional wound raw and open for as long as he could. The rage and grief had burned and burned with raw intensity until the rage had hollowed him out, turned his insides to ash. A person can only burn for so long until there is nothing left. His rage transformed from red, hot and all consuming to a cool, icy fury. He became a cold and empty shell that bore little similarity to the boy he had been before the Nazi's had knocked on their front door. When the rage ran dry, Erik discovered that despite all that had happened to him he could still be naive. Now hollow, what else could Shaw possibly do to him? He was ready for death as every bit of his life that mattered was gone. What was left? Such a stupid boy he'd been. Erik had quickly discovered that Shaw had so many other ways of eliciting his gift. Pain, and the fear of it, filled the space the rage had burned hollow. Shaw knew how much he craved his own end and therefore, of course, used it against him. Shaw brought him to the brink again and again, only to deny him his release each and every time. So Erik came to fear living and every torturous breath that came with it. With every new torture it had seemed impossible that he could live through it, but he had.

In the end, it made Erik what he was, a survivor. Fearless, because what was there left to fear? What could anyone possibly do to him that Shaw had not? What could anyone take away that Shaw had not? His will, his strength, his focus, his single minded determination, all forged in the most horrendous way imaginable, but forged none the less. Shaw had not broken him, and therefore, he could not be broken.

He had never counted on Charles Xavier.

Shaw had taken away and Charles had given back. Erik had never stopped to consider what might happen if someone were to give him back what had been taken. It was an an impossibility. At least, it had been, until that afternoon in Westchester. For the first time, love, not pain, had fuelled his power. It had been elicited under the ministrations of someone who cared for him instead of a cruel master. 

Everything he had held to be absolutely true about himself and his power since he had escaped Shaw was . . . wrong, or at least not completely right. The sense of vertigo was so strong that Erik could not blame only his exhaustion for his need to sit. It took time for him to even identify and label the emotions uncurling in his chest, as foreign as they were to him. It had not been since Shaw that he had felt . . . Uneasy? Nervous? He would not go so far as to say fear, not that, never that, but all was not right, not as it had been several hours ago. And he had no idea where it left him.

*

"We missed you at dinner." Charles strolled into the study, walking to his armchair across the chessboard from Erik. He flopped back into it with the boneless exhaustion of a long day, limbs collapsing into the forgiving leather. He reached for the glass of scotch Erik had already poured for him and took a neat sip. He closed his eyes and savoured the amber liquid on his tongue for a moment before letting it slide down his throat with a slightly obscene groan of gratitude. "Thank you, my friend," he said, opening his eyes and tilting the glass toward Erik in acknowledgement. Erik nodded deftly in return.

"We missed you at training as well," Charles continued. There was no remonstration in his voice, simply a statement of fact. "I believe Alex, in particular, was disappointed. Control over his gift eludes him, but control over his body, well, you have already afforded him a great deal of skill in that arena. I believe he enjoys the ease with which his body responds to his will in a way which his power has not." Charles tapped his lips thoughtfully with his forefinger. "I've not quite figured out how to help him in that."

"You will," Erik replied with his usual brevity. "You're a good teacher."

Charles arched an eyebrow, "I appreciate your faith in me but teaching genetics labs to undergrads is worlds away from this." Charles paused for another sip of scotch. "To teach them how to harness their mutations . . . it's unexplored territory. New, exciting," Charles' eyes lit up as his mind clearly whirled with possibilities. "But . . . I really have no bloody idea what I'm doing." The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight, rueful smile. "Making up the rules as I go, as it were."

Most evenings had been like this since they sought refuge in Westchester. No, that was not entirely true, they had been as such on their road trip across America as well. They had settled into a comfortable routine of chess, scotch and conversation. Charles, who was clearly more keen to converse than Erik, would spend their evenings reflecting on the day. On the road trip, he had gone over their latest success or failure in recruitment, picking apart what had gone well in their approach or what had not, what potential they had accessed or lost. Now, in Westchester, Charles would debrief on how training had gone, where they were making gains and where there was more work to do. 

Erik had become his sounding board and had immediately found he did not mind. He liked listening to Charles' emotive voice, his accent. His intelligence shone through no matter what he was commenting on. Erik, who had always thought he had little time or need for conversation, discovered he did not so much mind talking, if the topic was worthwhile and if his partner appreciated honesty. He could poke holes in Charles' political arguments, could point out a potentially better means of recruitment or training and Charles never became offended, only listened or countered him. Their debates had been known to go late into the night with nary a harsh word spoken between them. 

"For a boy with such bravado, he has very little confidence in himself," Charles continued and finally moved a piece on the board, picking up where they had left off the previous evening, having been too tired to complete the game. "I suppose it's not surprising, given the destruction he's capable of." 

Erik nodded. "Perhaps if he had a space where he could let go without having to be concerned about hurting anyone." He countered Charles' move.

"Of course!" Charles smiled, an idea clearly taking shape in his mind. "The bunker! How could I have not thought of the bunker? I'll take him down there tomorrow, first thing! I'd nearly forgotten about the silly thing. My step-father was absolutely paranoid and spent a tremendous amount to forge a space beneath the house to protect us all from nuclear attack. I have not been down there in years."

"Hardly foolish, to be prepared. Your move, Charles."

Charles' mind was clearly half on the bunker and how he might use it to further Alex's training because his next several moves were sloppy and short-sighted. It was looking more and more as if the game would be Erik's tonight. For all Charles' genius, he could be incredibly distractible. 

"However," Charles said after making another poor move, "It is not like you to miss training or dinner." His too blue eyes flicked up and locked onto Erik's. So it appeared he had not only been thinking of the bunker. Clearly, Erik was not going to get away with his absences so easily. Though it had not been a question, Charles' gaze clearly demanded a response.

"Know my habits, do you?" Erik rebuffed.

Charles let out a short bark of not unkind laughter, "I could set my watch by your habits, my friend. I've not seen you deviate from them since I met you." Was he truly that predictable? Before he could retort Charles went on, changing tacks. "You were magnificent today."

Erik started. The demand in Charles' gaze had softened to clear admiration. "Magnificent," he repeated, his voice softening as well. Erik did not know how to respond to that. He knew what he had done had been extraordinary. There was no doubt. However, he was not used to being looked at in such a way. When Shaw had been pleased with something Erik had done, his pleasure had been entirely self-congratulating. His admiration was not for Erik, but for himself, for finding a new way to draw forth Erik's power. Charles' gaze was nothing like it. It was warm, almost reverent. Increasingly uncomfortable, Erik got up and used his empty glass as an excuse to avoid Charles' gaze. 

"Thank you," he replied, gruffly, unsure of whether he was thanking Charles for the compliment or for helping him that afternoon. The uneasiness he had felt in the wake of moving the satellite dish began to unfurl within him again. 

"Are you all right?" Charles asked, too perceptive. Always too damned perceptive.

Erik snapped, "Peering into my mind?" He knew his unease was putting him on edge far too quickly, but his discomfort was rising by the moment.

"No," Charles snorted, as though that were obvious. "Your grip on the decanter is rather telling." Erik glanced immediately down at his hand, curled around the neck of the fine crystal bottle. He looked as though he were trying to strangle the damned thing. He loosened his fingers and slowly, deliberately, poured himself another glass of scotch.

"I'm fine," Erik lied, knowing full well Charles would see through the lie, but he did not want to talk about this. Not now, perhaps not ever. 

Predictably, "Erik, you are not fine. You've avoided me, everyone, the entire afternoon and you look as though you've seen a ghost, or worse."

Erik bristled. "Playing psychologist as well as teacher now, professor?"

"If I were, I'd say you're defense mechanisms are rather weak. Backhandedly insulting me to get me to back off or change the subject?" Charles snorted again. "We're past that, are we not? I've seen inside you - "

Erik cut him off, "And whose fault - " But then he cut himself off before he could finish. Whose fault indeed? Charles' first intrusion into his mind had been out of necessity, the second, at Erik's invitation. He would not insult either of their intelligences by suggesting otherwise. He downed his newly poured glass of scotch in one long pull. He did not slam the glass back down afterward, but did not exactly set it down gently either. The sound held an air of finality.

"I'm tired. Nothing more. Good night Charles," was all Erik said, unwilling to engage any farther. He stalked briskly out of the study, not waiting for the customary rejoinder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter. I am really enjoying exploring Erik's character and I'm glad it resonated with you. I hope my portrayal of him will continue to do so going forward. You all gave me a confidence boost I did not even know I needed!
> 
> This chapter also has stronger references to Erik's past torture at the hands of Shaw.

Erik slept little that night. His mind was still too crowded. One thought chasing around the next in a maddeningly unending stream that made it difficult to fall asleep. This was not typical. His mind was usually as ordered, as focused and as neat as the rest of him. He did not waste time second guessing decisions, dwelling on "what ifs." He made plans, executed those plans, and if they did not work out as he had expected, he learned from them and moved on. Anything less was a waste of mental energy and time better served in other ways. However, today had been anything but typical.

It was unsurprising then, that when exhaustion finally won out, the nightmare started much as it always had.

The room around him was shrouded in impenetrable blackness. Though it was an utterly useless endeavour, Erik squinted into the darkness. He tried and failed to detect anything. No faint shapes, no movement, nothing but the purest black. It didn't matter how many times Schmidt strapped him down to the table, Erik never got used to it. The ingrained instinct to fear the shadows was too powerful. His heart rate leapt forward as adrenaline coursed through his veins, readying him to fight or flee from what lurked in the dark. The leather holding him tight against the table beneath him meant that neither option would be available to him.

What would it be today?

Erik had come to discover that the possibilities were nearly endless. His mind helplessly reviewed the most recent manifestations of Schmidt's creativity. With each thought, his heart beat even more fiercely. Whatever it was it couldn't be as bad as the water, could it? He reflexively gagged and gasped for breath as the memory momentarily overtook him. He thrashed against the bonds once, twice, before sinking back onto the table. Erik took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself as he waited. Sometimes he laid in the dark for hours, sometimes minutes, the unpredictability just another one of Schmidt's games.

"What shall it be today, Erik?" Schmidt's mockingly friendly voice came suddenly out of the black, making Erik start violently against his bonds. A low rumble of laughter greeted him from somewhere to the left. Erik fought against the urge to thrash again, to get away from whatever was coming, but instinct again overrode his sense. The leather bit into him painfully as he tried to move away from the voice, the laughter.

"I thought we would try something new." Schmidt's voice was conversational, as though he were discussing something as mundane as switching to a different brand of tea. "I've brought someone into our little venture."

Erik tensed, stilling. Someone new? It had always been Schmidt, never anyone else. What did this mean? Why?

This time the voice came from the dark to his right. "Yes, you see, I too find your ability to be quite intriguing."

Erik knew that voice from . . . somewhere.

"I, however, have a decidedly different approach from my friend Schmidt here. More effective. Guaranteed to produce better results."

Erik gagged on bile.

The overhead lamp flicked on, too bright, too quickly and Erik found himself blinded.

"You see, Schmidt has always thought the key was rage, pain, and agony. But we know differently don't we, Erik?"

Schmidt and his associate were beginning to blur into focus.

"All this time it was serenity, wasn't it, _my friend_?"

Charles.

The two figures finally became clear. They loomed over him, backlit by the harsh light of the lamp. Charles' hand extended toward him, a grin spreading slowly over his lips. He brushed a loch of sweat soaked hair off of Erik's forehead.

"Oh Schmidt," Charles drawled, "If you could only feel his fear as I do." His fingers lingered and then slid slowly down to Erik's temple.

"Let's bring back more memories of his dear, dead mum, shall we?"

*

_Fuck_.

Erik tore the sheets off his sweat soaked body and staggered toward the bathroom. He sank to his knees on the cold tile and retched into the toilet. When his body was spent, he sagged back against the opposite wall. His breath continued to come ragged gasps that kept time with his pounding heart. He pressed both palms over his eyelids and tried to force his breathing into submission.

In. Out.

A nightmare. Only a nightmare. That room was more than a decade behind him, as were Shaw's attentions and yet, each time Erik woke from this particular nightmare his mind and body were transformed into that boy once more. The years meant nothing, and he was Shaw's again, sick and weak with a fear so overwhelming he could scarcely breathe, scarcely think.

In. Out.

Charles.

The image of nightmare Charles flashed behind his eyelids with merciless clarity, the dream still too fresh to have been smudged into oblivion by consciousness. Charles' warm eyes turned cold. His gentle voice turned grotesque. His soft touch turned vile.

Erik lunged over the toilet bowl once more. His body did little more than shudder as there was nothing left in him to give. He stayed that way, one hand clutching the bowl and the other clutching the upturned lid, as he tried to brush away the appalling image of a man he'd come to think of as the closest thing he had ever had to a friend. Try as he might, his stomach continued to turn, and his pulse refused to steady, as Charles stared at him in his mind's eye with the same vicious delight as Shaw.

"Erik?!"

His name seemed to come out of nowhere, jarring him. Hands grasped his biceps and Erik lashed out mindlessly, shoving away the source of that touch. He heard a bang and a yelp as he propelled himself back against the ledge of the bathtub and ground out, "Don't touch me."

His plea was ignored and once again those hands gripped his arms and a face, Charles' face, came into focus in front of his own.

"Erik, what are you doing? What's . . . What's going on?"

The Charles in front of him and the Charles still persisting obstinately in his mind collided and for not the first time that day, Erik felt vertigo.

_Erik. Please. Please, talk to me._

But he had no words, no voice, mental or verbal to answer him. A strangled sound escaped his throat and Erik wanted to scream. Here he was again. How was he here again? Laid bare in front of this man once more. His past, his present, all an open book for Charles to read, to know, more than Erik had ever wanted anyone to know.

_My friend?_

Erik gagged and made for the toilet once more, but Charles' tight grip on his arms prevented him from moving.

And then there it was, the warm rush pouring through his mind and body, soothing his nerves, calming his stomach, slowing his heart, and quieting his mind. Charles' mental touch was sunlight spilling out from behind the clouds, chasing away every shadow.

Peace.

In the ocean, he had been drowning, and it was no less the case now. As his mind cleared, Erik realized that he was grasping Charles' arms just as tightly as Charles was grasping his.

"I'm sorry- I... Your pain," Charles swallowed helplessly. "Are you back?" He was speaking aloud now, as softly as one would to a cornered animal. His blue eyes were warm again, his voice gentle.

"Yes." Erik's voice was hoarse to his own ears.

They were still clutching at one another, neither had made a move to let go. They stayed that way as the silence grew between them. What was there to say? Charles had said it all once. He knew everything. His expression seemed to attest it. Erik could read sympathy, caring and grief there. In another time, another place, Erik might have been angry. Angry at the intrusion, angry that Charles had entered his mind once more against his wishes, angry at being pitied, but he didn't have the energy, not in this moment.

Charles broke the silence first. "Can you stand?"

Damned if he wasn't going to try. With Charles supporting him, he stood. Once upright, they both, finally, let their hands drop.

"Could you - " Erik made a vague gesture at the bathroom around them, but Charles seemed to understand and slid out the door, closing it gently behind him. Erik rinsed his mouth and brushed his teeth thoroughly. After he had raked a hand through his hair, he emerged from the bathroom, unsure if Charles would still be there, unsure if he wanted it to be so.

He was. Charles was holding two glasses in his hands. Where the alcohol had come from, Erik did not know, as he had never noticed any in his room, but did not particularly care. Wordlessly, Charles handed him one of the tumblers. Erik downed the glass in one go. It could have been top-shelf scotch or rot-gut whiskey and he was not likely to have noticed. Charles plucked the empty glass from his fingers without asking and filled it again.

"Thank you," Erik said, the words barely audible, and he received a deft nod in response. Whether he was thanking Charles for the drink, for before, or for both, was anyone's guess.

Charles was sipping more carefully at his own glass and for the first time, Erik was able to get a true look at him. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, he was clad in a plain grey tee shirt that hugged his torso and pyjama bottoms that had, of all things, an atrociously loud Hawaiian floral print. Erik quirked an eyebrow that caused Charles to look down at himself. He sighed, "It's a long story that involves Raven and a lost bet." Charles fingered the ridiculous pants. "A story for another time, perhaps."

Erik settled himself in an armchair, neither inviting Charles to do the same, nor asking him to leave. He felt himself to be in a curious state of limbo, not entirely sure what he wanted. Charles, for his part, did not press but settled himself into an armchair opposite Erik. He curled his legs up into the chair. The quiet stretched as they drank. Scotch, Erik noted, now that he was of a mind to do so. Charles, who was normally so chatty, let the silence stretch and it was Erik who found himself breaking it this time.

"How did you... Why did you... ?"

Charles seemed to consider how to best respond. " Your mind... It was... You could think of it, I suppose, as mental shouting. Strong emotions are always loud. I can always perceive them, to a certain degree, no matter how hard I shield. Your emotions, at least, were quite clear, if not the source of them. I couldn't... I had to know you were all right."

Erik stared down into the little bit of amber still remaining in his glass. He swirled it. Once, twice. "Thank you," he said again. He did not look up to see how Charles received it.

Charles seemed to feel this was a cue of some sort and stood, draining the last of his scotch. He hesitated, "Is there anything... " He waved his hands about, somewhat helplessly.

"No."

Charles nodded. "I'll see you at breakfast then?"

It was Erik's turn to nod.

"All right, until morning then. Good night, Erik."

As Charles' figure retreated out the door, Erik murmured, "Good night."

Erik, though, did not attempt sleep. He stayed in the arm chair, thinking of Shaw, thinking of his mother, thinking of Charles, until dawn's light began to seep into the room from beneath the shut curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the chapter where I felt like I was being really mean to Erik. Oh my poor angsty boy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has left such thoughtful comments. I can't tell you how much it thrills me to see you analyzing my work :)

Erik's feet pounded against gravel.

Despite not having slept more than a handful of fitful hours, prior to awaking from his nightmare, Erik did not use it as an excuse to deviate from his routine. He had lifted his body from the arm chair, put his long empty tumbler aside, and dressed himself in grey sweats.

_I could set my watch by your habits._

Charles' words echoed, and on another day they may have rankled, but he had larger concerns than whether or not he was predictable. The scenery blurred past him as the rocks crunched under the soles of his sneakers. With each step, he pushed himself harder, faster, until the thudding of his heart, and the timing of his breath, were the only two things he was aware of. They blotted out every racing thought, as he careened toward oblivion. Erik ran and ran until his already tired body had nothing left.

Erik's calf muscles cramped and gave out first, buckling his knees and sending him down, mercifully, onto the lushly tended grass of the grounds. He gasped for air as he knelt on all fours until the pain receded and his breathing evened out into something manageable. As he stared down at the deep green blades of grass poking through his outstretched fingers, the ache returned.

It had started out as a small thing yesterday, a bloom of feeling in his chest. It swelled when Erik let the memory take hold and receded when he pushed the memory away, but it never disappeared fully. He could not outrun it. He kept seeing his mother's solemn but fond eyes as they lit the candles of the menorah. Her voice gently chiding him to be careful around the open flame. The gentle caress of her fingers down his cheek. The reciting of the blessings was melodic, almost lyrical, when she uttered them, hushed and beautiful. She had been... had she been musical? The thought felt right, but beyond that moment, he could not hear her voice, her songs. The longing grew until wetness pricked the corners of Erik's eyes once more.

He decided. And once Erik decided something, he did not look back.

By the time he had returned to the mansion it was still disgustingly early by most people's standards, particularly the young people who made up most of the mansion's current residents, so Erik fully expected the kitchen would be empty. Instead, the smell of coffee greeted him before he had even entered the room. When he did, he found Charles looking just as rumpled as he had in Erik's room only a few short hours ago. He was staring at the coffee maker as though it held the secrets of the universe.

"Coffee?" Erik enquired.

Charles' eyes flicked up from the brewing beans to Erik. The deep circles under them suggested that Charles had gotten about as much sleep as Erik had the night before. Clearly, rest had eluded them both. On top of that, Erik had never seen Charles up at this hour. Making coffee, no less.

"Yes," Charles mumbled, eventually, while simultaneously stifling a yawn. "I know I'm shattering every staunchly held stereotype of England, but as I'm awake at the crack of 'why the fuck is anyone up at this hour' coffee seemed infinitely more appropriate than breakfast tea."

Erik raised an eyebrow at the rare curse uttered from Charles' normally posh mouth and Charles flipped him the bird. This made Erik laugh, despite himself. Sleep deprivation, he thought, became Charles. If he had expected any awkwardness to follow the events of the previous night, he was grateful that awkwardness had not materialized. Erik moved in beside Charles and elbowed him away from the coffee maker.

"Please," he said, gravely, "Let the professional take over. If you make coffee as weakly as you make tea it will not do either of us any good."

Charles put his hand over his heart in mock offence, and backed away, leaving Erik to finish up. They both rummaged around the kitchen in companionable silence, Charles fetching cream and sugar while Erik added additional ground beans to the filter. Despite his teasing, Charles really did brew everything too weakly for his taste.

Eventually, he poured them each a cup. Charles loaded his up with an obscene amount of accoutrements and Erik left his black, relishing the way the harsh taste seemed to sharpen his senses long before the caffeine even had a chance to take effect. They drank quietly and Erik was surprised that Charles did not try to fill the silence. Normally, the man was always talking about something.

When Erik spoke up it was abrupt and without preamble.

"I want you to do it again."

Charles blinked, brow furrowing, clearly not taking his meaning. "What? Do what again?"

"What you did yesterday, at the satellite dish, I want you to do it again."

The coffee mug had paused, comically, halfway to Charles' mouth. "You... You want me to enter your mind again?"

"Yes." Erik set his own mug down, not quite trusting his own grip. "Moving the dish... I never imagined I would be able to tackle something so large. I want to see what else might be within my power." That was the easy explanation and if he left it there he doubted Charles would press. But, it was more than that, he knew it and undoubtedly Charles did too. Erik forced the next words from his lips. "And- what you showed me... I- " Erik stopped and took a fortifying breath, loathing the tremble in his voice. "I remember almost nothing of her. I think I want to remember more."

Charles set down his own mug, staring searchingly at Erik for a long moment. "You've been very clear about me not poking around up there. Are you quite certain?"

Erik let out a short bark of laughter and could not quite contain the bitter tone that spilled out with his words. "No. But also yes. Charles, you said so yourself, you've already seen everything. And after last night... At this point, what damned bit of difference would it make?"

Charles' sideways glance was a tell, a small tell, but a tell nonetheless. "I would not go so far as to say... _everything_."

Erik raised both eyebrows.

Charles let out a slow breath, twisting his coffee mug between his hands. "I've seen enough, Erik. More than I'm sure you would have ever wished. I know... I know some of what Shaw did to you. Some of how you feel about him. Prominent memories of your... your time together. Some of what you dreamt last night. But it's by no means _everything_. Enough, but not everything. Many of your secrets are still your own. It is well within your rights to keep them that way."

Oh.

He could see what Charles was offering. An out, a gentle, dignified out. A way for him to put all his walls back up, to drown in his cold fury and continue along the same path. Charles was not going to push, was not going to ask anything of him. However, it was no longer that simple. In less than twenty-four short hours, everything had flipped upside down. Erik was already through the looking glass and he knew there was no going back.

His words felt brittle, but true. "Whether it's how I would have wanted it or not, my secrets have not been my own since you pulled me out of the ocean."

Charles nodded and took that for what it was. Erik wholly appreciated that he had the decency not look apologetic. Charles had done what he had to do in that moment. If he had not, Erik would have been dead. Period. There was nothing to apologize for.

"If that's truly what you want I can- "

"Who made the coffee? Because if it was Charles, I'll take a pass. A big, fat pass."

Erik and Charles both started, as Raven pressed between them to get at the coffee pot. Neither had heard her approach, but Raven did not seem to notice. She took hold of the pot, and held it up, waiting for a response.

Erik watched Charles' lips curve into an easy, practiced, smile, "You can rest assured, my dear, that Erik rescued the coffee from my all together too British hands."

Raven laughed and began to pour herself a generous cup. Good natured ribbing continued between the two siblings and Erik was happy to let himself fade into the background.

*

Erik arrived back at the satellite dish first that evening. He gazed out at it across the grounds. Daylight was fading, smearing reds and oranges across the horizon. It was late, but the day had been too full to consider trying this any earlier. This had given Erik all too many hours to reconsider. To think better of allowing Charles into his mind again. He had avoided such thoughts in the manner he always had, hard work. Where he had avoided it the day before, today he gave himself over to it fully. His focus was so absolute that he was completely unaware the younger mutants had been ready to kill him by the end of training. Weights, running, calisthenics, basic hand-to-hand combat, repeat. It was only when Raven spoken up, threatening to "rip his balls off and feed them to him" if she had to do one more jumping jack, that he'd finally dismissed them for the day. As Erik had watched them, literally, limp off, he'd had to stop and consider that perhaps they didn't need to work through his demons alongside him. Only Alex had been immune, locked up all day in the bunker with Charles.

Charles was late, not that this was particularly surprising. Even if training wasn't inherently unpredictable, Charles was the type who was perpetually ten minutes behind schedule. Erik considered trying to move the dish again while he waited, but he knew the effort would be futile. His power again felt the same as it had for years now. The serenity which had caused it to surge and transform into something new, something greater, was gone. In the moment, the memory had been perfectly preserved - the peace of the ritual, the love of his mother and his love for her - but now it was tarnished, twisted up with the heartache of having lost it, the renewed anger at Shaw for having taken it, the desire to retaliate by uncovering more. He could be more than Shaw had ever dreamed. The thought filled Erik with a cold satisfaction that was anything but serene.

He needed Charles.

That thought chilled him just as much as the thought of restoring more of his past. Erik had lived his life making damned sure he did not need anyone ever again. Flexing his power, he pulled the Nazi coin from his pocket. He let it drift up so that it was level with his eyes. He rotated it slowly, keeping his gaze fastened upon it, and let everything else fall away. He did not need Charles, he needed Charles' power, his help. That power was a means to an end, as was allying himself with everyone here in Westchester. The end game had not changed. With Charles' support, Erik would become stronger, because that strength afforded him the best opportunity he'd ever had to kill Shaw.

Erik plucked the coin from the air with his hand and clutched it tightly. He vibrated the metal with increasing speed until it began to heat against his palm. He continued to manipulate the metallic molecules until the heat went from warm and pleasant to searing and hot. It was not until the coin threatened to leave a permanent mark that Erik stopped.

 _Niemals_ _vergessen_.

Never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If a native German speaker is reading this and could confirm or correct my translation, that would be lovely!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I always try to stay one chapter ahead in the event that plot revision is necessary and Chapter 5 turned into a monster. A 'twice as long as any other chapter' monster. So lots of good stuff to come, gentle readers!
> 
>  **Warning** : This chapter again references Erik's past torture at the hands of Shaw. Nothing too graphic I don't think.

Erik slipped the coin back into his pocket when he heard Charles' approach. His palm continued to throb, matching his heart beat for beat.

"I'm sorry, Erik," Charles apologized as he jogged up. "You would not believe the day Alex and I had."

Erik made to reply, but an acrid smell met his nose before the words could leave his mouth. It was unmistakable. Erik's stomach flipped, and he took what he hoped was an inconspicuous breath through his nose. Perhaps he was not as recovered from the nightmare as he had thought. "Your hair."

Charles took on a rueful expression. "Only lightly singed, I assure you."

"Lightly?" Erik was facing him full on now. The left side of his face was unnaturally red. It looked as though he'd fallen asleep on his side at the beach and stayed that way just a touch too long.

Charles had the decency to go from rueful to vaguely embarrassed. "Admittedly, I should have known better. He hadn't demonstrated much in the way of control as yet and I thought putting a live person in the bunker with him, someone who trusted him, might help him realize he could exert more control than he thought. He wasn't ready. It was a near thing, but here I stand."

Erik reached out and gently brushed bits of burnt hair off of Charles' shoulder. They floated slowly to the ground. "Please be... you should be more careful." His hand rested there for a moment, then retreated. 

Charles' eyes stayed on Erik's hand for a beat, then he responded, "I agree. Though I believe I did more harm to Alex than myself. The likelihood of him allowing me in the bunker again is very slim. I think I've utterly undone everything we had achieved thus far. He is quite beside himself. Hank is working on something, but..." Charles' eyes were far away as he ran a hand through his singed hair, letting out a slow breath. More little bits floated down.

He did not know why, but Erik knew he was the only one who saw this side of Charles. In front of the others, even in front of Raven, Charles' confidence never wavered. In fact, at times, it could border on arrogance. He always seemed to have the right thing to say, the right piece of advice to give, or the right insight to make everything make sense. Here, away from all of the others, the self-assured facade was shed, the professor retreated, and what was left was Charles. Just Charles.

Erik re-focused on the diminishing throb in his hand and on the feel of the metal coin in his pocket. He squeezed his hand into a fist and the throb momentarily intensified. 

"Enough about Alex though," Charles continued, visibly shrugging his shoulders back and pulling himself together. "I've been thinking all day, about what you asked of me this morning, about wanting to uncover more. Are you- are you quite sure, Erik?"

The look Erik gave him must have been answer enough.

"All right, all right," Charles huffed. "You're sure. Shall we then?" He moved his fingers toward his temple demonstratively and Erik had a momentary sense of deja vu. The only difference between the two moments was the cast of the late evening light warming Charles' face. His fingers paused before they met skin and looked at him imploringly. Erik nodded and braced himself.

This time was different from the others. The pressure against his mind felt almost... unpleasant. It reminded him of someone squeezing your arm not quite enough to hurt, but enough that you knew you were moments away from it. Erik understood, intellectually, that the warm rush of calm was not the same use of Charles' power as searching his memory. However, it felt different than the day before as well. In fact, yesterday he had hardly known what was happening. Images of his mother, and the feelings associated with them, had seemed to appear out of nowhere.

_That's because you are consciously thinking about it this time, you've had all day to build this up in your mind and you're resisting me._

Erik had to grit his teeth against telling Charles to speak to him properly, out loud. They weren't going to get anywhere if that was how he truly felt. 

_No, we're not. I say again, Erik, are you sure this is what you want?_

"Yes," he growled, aloud. "Just do it."

Instead of complying with his request, the pressure lessened and Charles' mental presence retreated. It was not entirely gone, as Erik could still feel it, hovering at a safe distance. He felt a flash of sadness that he did not think was his own. _I am not going to force myself into your mind, Erik._ There was a pause. _I could, but I won't. Not now, not ever._ The words were more than just words. They were saturated with an aching fierceness that Erik could feel. It was more than tone or expression, though those were present as well. The words were visceral, tangible.

Erik let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

"I don't know how to let you in. I don't know how I'm resisting."

Charles seemed to consider those words for a moment. Erik could see the consideration in his features and feel it, faintly, in his mind. It was bizarre, two Charles' superimposed over one another in front of him.

_You think my talents bizarre?_

Erik started, finding it difficult to remember that, like this, Charles was probably hearing every stray thought that flew through his mind. He grasped for an apology. "I'm- I'm sorry Charles, that's not what I-"

 _Calm yourself._ The chuckle he heard was again both mental and physical. Two Charles'. _I was only teasing._ Erik caught a wordless fondness at his fluster and...

"Adorable? _Really_ , Charles."

The warm chuckle again met his ears and mind. _Only very occasionally, I assure you. Your menacing exterior rarely shows a crack. I'm quite certain none of the children have used the word 'adorable' and 'Erik' in the same sentence. But, see, you've relaxed now, haven't you?_

He had. Charles had the unique talent of subverting everything.

_Now, before you brace yourself again, reach out to me._

Erik took a steadying breath and tried to do as he was told. He imagined reaching out a mental hand to Charles, pulling that presence closer to his mind. Every fibre of his being wanted to do the opposite, wanted to push Charles forcefully away, to throw up impenetrable mental walls and deny him entrance to the last place that was Erik's and Erik's alone. He clamped down hard on those instincts. If Charles could feel them, and Erik had no doubt that he could, he made no comment, and only waited, patiently.

When Charles' mental presence was again pressed up against the edges of his mind, Erik imagined a door. He imagined opening that door and asking Charles inside. A hundred thoughts swelled in that moment, all of them concentrated on how foolish he was being to allow this intimacy, this -

_Thank you, Erik._

The thoughts instantly abated at the startling depth and gravity of those words. Charles' gratitude at being allowed this surged through him, driving away, momentarily at least, all of Erik's conscious and subconscious objections.

 _You know some of what's in here, Charles. What I've given you is hardly a gift._ Erik did not know how he had shifted into speaking this way, but it felt easy, natural.

 _We will have to disagree on that point, my friend._ Those two words, that Charles used so often, carried with them more warmth here. _There's so much more to you than you know._ The same words as before. Erik could not be sure if he was remembering them or if Charles was speaking them again. He felt the moment Charles shifted into a more business like disposition.

_Let's see what we can find, shall we?_

Instantly, images began flashing behind Erik's eyes. Each one was too quick to hold, to know. Were they all memories? Was Charles processing them? How did he know what he was looking for and where to look for it? To Erik, it seemed like an incomprehensible jumble. As quickly as the images had begun flashing, they stopped, stilling on one.

_Your hand._

A slowly spinning coin. A clenched fist. 

Charles was surprised and something... something Erik could not quite place. Anger bubbled up and lanced through his mind, almost pushing Charles out. He had momentarily forgotten about it, his hand, which was now producing nothing more than a dull ache. Hardly worth noticing or mentioning. _This is not what we were looking for, Charles._ His words held warning, cutting through his most recent memory like so much paper. They had made an agreement and this was not part of it.

 _You're right, Erik. I'm sorry._ Charles was appropriately abashed and still . . . something else. Charles' own thoughts had turned, perhaps unsurprisingly, to his own burned face, the discomfort it was causing him, and the pungent smell of burnt hair still hanging in the air between them.

Erik felt a strange tug in his gut, then, briefly, weightlessness. When he felt grounded again everything in his mind's eye had shifted and he was back there again, for the second time in two days. The black room. This time was different though, a memory, not a nightmare. Nightmares were the twisted sisters of memory, convoluting old realities into something much worse. They forced him to experience the worst parts of his life in even worse ways, with none of the mechanisms he might otherwise use to cope in the light of day.

What he had now were little more than a series of connected moments, impressions, and images. The small flame of a lighter. Schmidt's face grotesquely illuminated by the flickering light. Scorched hair curling up toward his scalp. Small patches of burnt flesh across his body. Pinpoints of agony. Schmidt's mocking voice, "The lighter is made of metal, my dear Erik. All you must do is snatch it from my hand and your pain will stop." Silent screams tearing from his throat when his voice could take no more. It was not one time, or one particular day, but a series of Schmidt's "sessions" blurred together and impossible to pull apart.

Erik viewed it all again with a cool detachment. He had learned long ago how to handle these memories, how to live with them when forgetting was hardly an option. It was him and not him. Not any longer.

Charles was not so fortunate. 

Revulsion, fear and anguish rolled through Erik's mind in a torrent. It severed their connection so suddenly that Erik lost his balance. At some point, they had come to hold one another physically, as well as mentally, and together they tumbled to the ground. Erik found himself sprawled half on top of Charles. The man had gone ghostly pale, all the more amplified by the burn covering half of his face. His blue eyes were a storm of emotions that were difficult to parse out, but Erik had more than a few educated guesses. He saw the instant a different kind of fear alighted in those eyes, sheer panic, and he rolled off of Charles in the same instant that Charles wrenched himself in the opposite direction. Bent over, hands pressed to the ground and just barely holding up his torso, Charles threw up.

The first licks of cold fury began to curl in his gut.

_Not just pain and anger, there's good too. I've felt it._

Erik started to laugh. He wasn't sure where the laughter had come from, but there it was, bubbling to the surface, spilling out and absolutely humourless. Charles had turned over, was facing him again, now seated and leaning back heavily against the balustrade.

"Found the good, did you Charles?"

Charles opened his mouth to respond but, for what Erik thought might be the first time in the man's life, nothing came out. The only sound was Charles' ragged breathing.

"Not just pain?" More laughter slipped unbidden past his lips. He knew what he was. He had always known. "Did you enjoy the way Schmidt used to paint scars on my body with flames? Did you feel the _good_ there?"

Charles looked as though he might throw up again, but managed, with several steadying breaths, to contain himself. Erik lifted himself off of the ground and dusted bits of dirt and debris off of his clothes. "I know what I am." He spoke the words aloud this time. Charles had not moved, and did not contradict him. He only tracked Erik's movements with his eyes, his chest still heaving with the effort of breathing.

"I'm a monster, Charles. I forgot, for a moment." He crouched down next to him and offered his hand. It was accepted with what Erik thought was a touch of wariness. He pulled an unsteady Charles to his feet. The icy fury he had known so well, and for so many years, settled comfortably back into his gut. It was not directed at what had just happened, nor was it directed at Charles. It was still for Shaw. All for Shaw. If anything . . .

"Thank you, my friend, for reminding me."

Erik released Charles' arm when he was sure the man wouldn't fall back over, turned on his heel, and strode back toward the mansion. He did not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://pinkoptics.tumblr.com) if you wish!


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